


Souls

by vipjuly



Series: Undisclosed Pleasures [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Creature Castiel, Creature Dean Winchester, Goth Castiel, Grace Kink, Grace Sex, Light Angst, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Rope Bondage, Tattooed Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 19:10:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15443880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipjuly/pseuds/vipjuly
Summary: Castiel allows Dean to finally ask a question.





	Souls

**Author's Note:**

> "Souls" - Troyboi  
> hello, this is part of a series. for full understanding please refer to the first installment, ["too bad"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13983588) and make your way through to read it properly as a crescendo.

Dean dreams of flying.

He dreams of dappled wings and swirling galaxies, physical yet formless as he flies through the universe. He watches stars die, witnesses planets being born, sees humans come into existence and then fizzle out on a timeless loop.

Infinity exists and he is being swept away with it. 

He dreams about the rings of Saturn and mighty, roaring dragons, smooth scales underneath his bare thighs as he rides the beast through supernovas. The cadence of wings flapping matches the beat of meteor showers and his sword is mighty in his hand, heavy in its sheath, righteous in its path. 

He dreams of Castiel, pristine and clean and righteous in his glory. He dreams of Castiel’s wings, beautiful and full and glossy and without imperfection. He dreams of Castiel’s gossamer feathers painting nebulae in passing, blues and purples and greens and pinks with each barely there stroke of a feather. He dreams of them dancing on Venus, making love on Neptune, and whispering confessions in the space between Pisces and Pegasus. 

Shortly after this, he dreams of Falling.

He dreams of God’s fury - God’s rage. He dreams of loving that which he should not and he dreams of being cast out. He dreams about his wings tattered and wounded, he dreams about turning into a comet to travel the universe endlessly. 

He dreams of crashing into Earth’s orbit. 

He dreams of being without Castiel.

He dreams of Castiel Falling for him. 

He dreams of wings burning, turning to ash, embers and charred feathers floating back up into the galaxies abandoned.

Whenever he wakes up from these dreams he feels his back burning, his bones and his _heart_ aching and he thrashes in the sheets, body temperature too hot to bear, tears streaming down his face. His fingers always find the ropes on his left arm, tugging, pulling, tightening, and the calm that floods through him carries him back into dreamless slumber. 

He doesn’t have these dreams all of the time. When he shares a bed with Castiel sleep is restful and dreamless, his body usually swept into slumber by an intense orgasm. They’ve been together for three months; three months of mind blowing sex, three months of their lives twining together. Dean hardly goes back to his apartment anymore. It’s too big - too bright, too… clinical. Too empty. 

He grows used to the smell of weed and incense, of Castiel’s sweet and tangy scent with underlying ash that is unrelated to the shampoo he uses. He craves the security of the darkness of Cas’s home, the cocoon of his bed, the strength of his embrace. Sometimes when Dean gets out of the shower and towels off he thinks he’s sees black in his reflection, inky patterns swirled over his skin, but they’re gone as quick as they come, wiped away with a blink. Sometimes he thinks stardust falls from Castiel’s lips when he laughs, and sometimes he swears that Castiel’s eyes glow brighter than the full moon. 

But these things he keeps to himself.

Castiel is inherently ambiguous, choosing to neither confirm nor deny anything Dean brings up. Dean has learned that Castiel just _is_ , an entity all his own, not bound by any sort of rules or realities. 

Castiel is ethereal.

The more Dean gets to know him - his laugh, his smile, his passions - Castiel turns from ethereal to angelic. 

Dean is falling.

\--

“Today I would like to show you something,” Castiel says over breakfast. He’s made them a tofu scramble and Dean had initially complained about there not being bacon in the mixture, but as usual with Castiel’s cooking, the first bite had him shutting up. Last night Dean had stayed over, which is not unusual; but they had just watched a movie and fell asleep. No sex. Just a good old fashioned sleepover. It feels surprisingly good. Normal. When Castiel sees he has Dean’s attention, he continues, “I’m sure you’ve noticed that I lack neighbors.”

“No offense Cas, but this place doesn’t exactly scream ‘prime real estate’ being tucked away in a back alley close to all the shitty bars,” Dean says with a wry grin. “I noticed you don’t have neighbors but it doesn’t seem all that weird given the neighborhood.”

Castiel sends Dean a thoughtful gaze, like it hadn’t occurred to him that the location of his home is in a… not so nice part of town. “Oh.” 

Dean raises a brow. “You really didn’t-” he laughs. “Huh. Well, the important thing is that you like living here.” He shrugs as he stuffs more food in his face. “And Baby doesn’t get vandalized, so it’s plenty good in my books.”

“I would never allow anything to happen to your car while she’s parked in front of my home,” Castiel replies, almost sounding affronted like that’s even an option. Dean blinks a few times and then shakes his head, continuing to eat after gesturing for Castiel to get on with his point. “In any case, I have no neighbors because I own the building.”

“No shit,” Dean says in surprise. “All four spaces?”

Castiel nods. “I’m not very… neighborly, so I have done my best to ensure that I do not have any.”

Dean barks out a laugh. “Damn Cas, you’re cold.” And rich.

Castiel merely offers Dean a sated smile. “I enjoy my privacy.”

“So you own the whole building?” Dean asks, incredulous. “I mean shit, even I get cranky about neighbors but I can’t imagine buying up all the spaces so no one can live near me.”

“Clearly you have not witnessed the worst parts of humanity,” Castiel says dryly.

“Guess not,” Dean says with a bright grin. He clears his plate and sits back in his chair, idly running a hand over his stomach. Staying with Castiel frequently and eating what he cooks has actually helped Dean slim down a little bit. Coupled with the physical labor of his job, Dean is seeing the six pack that disappeared shortly after college. Being with Castiel has been a constant of change and so far, all Dean has been seeing are good results. Physically stronger, fitter, healthier. He doesn’t drink anymore. Emotionally: less stressed, more carefree, and attuned to others. He never thought that figuring out how to depend on someone emotionally could lead to so many doors opening up. Even his friends have noticed his improved state of being (Sam had even _shook Castiel’s hand_ when they met, that asshole) and Dean is frequently thankful for his and Castiel’s relationship, but when he thinks about how cynical and angry he used to get over the stupidest things… well. 

He remains humbled.

“What I want to show you is on the top level on the other side of the building,” Castiel continues. He also finishes his food and stands up, gathering their empty plates and taking them to the sink. He rinses them and sets them aside to be washed later and grabs his bong off of the counter, returning to the table and fishing around in the pocket of his sweatpants for his lighter. 

Dean watches him load the bowl, his arms folded loosely across his chest, lips curling into a grin. “Gonna finally show me your sex torture dungeon?”

“That’s in the basement,” Castiel replies as he packs the bowl in tight. Dean’s unsure as to whether or not Castiel is joking. He flicks his lighter over the bowl, then sucks in a hit. Dean watches the water bubble and the smoke swirl up the tube, Castiel sucking it down so smoothly it’s like he’s just breathing regular air. He holds the hit for a moment and then tilts his head back, exposing his throat tattoos peeking up from the collar of his sleep shirt, exhaling the plume of smoke from his pink pink lips.

“So it’s a sex _chamber_ ,” Dean then corrects himself, voice tinged with amusement.

“It’s a room that I have wild, voracious, kinky sex in,” Castiel says with a roll of his eyes. “Quit making it sound so medieval.” 

“What kinda devices do you have in there?” Dean presses. Castiel gives him a dead look and then puts his lips back to the bong, flicking his lighter a few times. “Obviously you’ve got some sort of rope trap in there. Whips? Chains? Floggers?”

After this next hit, Castiel petulantly blows the smoke across the table directly at Dean’s face. “Most definitely I have gags, which I am not afraid to use on you, loudmouth.”

Dean laughs and waves the smoke out of his face. “Is this gonna turn into one of those ‘show, don’t tell’ lessons?”

“I am fond of those,” Castiel muses. He takes another hit and then stands up as he holds it, returning the bong to its place on the counter. He exhales the smoke from his nose and he looks like the dragons in Dean’s dreams, powerful and strong and ill-contained. 

“Well,” Dean stands up, clapping his hands. “Eight a.m. sounds like a good time as any to go explore your kink cage.”

Castiel sends Dean a withering glare. “You are incorrigible.” 

“So I’ve been told. Are you ready to gag me yet?”

Castiel rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile on his lips as he grabs a set of keys from one of the kitchen drawers. “Come.” 

There’s no question as to whether or not Dean will follow. They leave Castiel’s home and hook a left to walk up the steps to the second floor of the quadruplex, and across the hall is where Castiel stops at a door, unlocking it. Neither of the doors up here have numbers on them, but the walkway is maintained and clear of debris, the only indication that they aren’t totally vacant. Dean wonders what’s in the other two empty living spaces.

When Castiel opens the door he allows Dean inside first, and Dean immediately feels heat punch through his system. Castiel’s own home is broken up into sections; living room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom. This quad is just one big, open space, with a bathroom tucked into the back corner, a kitchenette adjacent to it. It’s been completely renovated to be one open room with hardwood floors, the walls painted a rich, deep, wine (blood) red. There’s a tall wardrobe next to the curtained window on the far wall, a black leather couch against another wall, and as Dean allows his gaze to wander from floor to ceiling his suspicions are confirmed; there’s an array of D-rings bolted to the ceiling, a few metal tracks, and he feels fire licking into his veins as he takes everything in. This place is spotless, almost clinically clean, and he swallows thickly, trying to find his voice.

“Doesn’t look very dungeon-y.” 

Castiel shuts the door behind Dean with a click, causing the contractor to jump slightly. “Dean.” Castiel’s voice is deep, the voice that Dean associates with mind blowing pleasure and multiple orgasms. “Please go wash up in the restroom while I set up out here.”

Dean arches a brow at his lover, before grinning. “Straight to business, huh? Awesome.” He sees the flash of Castiel’s smirk as he pads over towards the bathroom, opening the door and flicking on the light. It’s darkly colored in here as well, and as Dean glances around the smooth black marble surfaces and the deep indigo accents, he thinks it feels… romantic. There’s a jetted tub in the corner and a separate, glass-enclosed shower stall, and some poking around in the cupboard beneath the sink reveals that there are all sorts of products to get… clean with. There’s shampoo and conditioner in unlabeled bottles, body wash, some razors still in the package. But there’s also some… kits, that Dean has only personally used on a medical level, and he wonders idly if Castiel cares that Dean, well, hasn’t cleaned himself _like that_. 

Puffing his cheeks out, Dean grabs the shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. He stands and moves towards the shower (oh, that bath tub looks divine, but he’s sure he’s on some sort of time limit), opening the glass door and setting the bottles inside on the shelf. He glances back towards the cabinet and decides that if Castiel cared about “that kind” of cleanliness, he would have brought it up - the man has no friggin’ tact whatsoever and also has no shame, so Dean is pretty sure that he would have brought that up a while ago if it really mattered. 

In the shower he gives himself a perfunctory wash, but he can’t help but start to feel a little excited at the prospect of playing around in this sex… chamber. Yeah. He does his best not to think about the fact that Castiel has lived here for quite some time and, likely, had multiple partners before Dean came into the picture, and he _definitely_ does his best to not think about how many people Castiel has brought into this space. It’s not a subject they’ve ever brought up - basically, they got together, and that was that, all previous ties to other flings severed. 

Still, Dean can’t help but wonder about Castiel’s past adventures. The man has clearly had lots of practice with this craft. There’s no way there aren’t any broken hearts out there. As he steps out of the shower and grabs a fluffy towel to start drying off with, he catches his reflection in the mirror. In the past three months Castiel has done wonders in building Dean up - done wonders in destroying any of his self-doubts and insecurities. Dean sees himself, now, as confident, smart, and worthy of love and affection. Not that he didn’t really think those things before; he just used to be a bit more reticent about letting his own thoughts wander that way, not wanting to seem egotistical or vain. Castiel has unleashed something within him, something strong and powerful and… _right_. 

Deciding to leave his clothing in the bathroom he hangs up the towel on the rack, opening the door so he can walk out into the main room. It’s chilly, his nipples perking and goosebumps raising over his flesh. His eyes land on Castiel, who is standing on a small step stool so he can reach the ceiling, where he is carefully threading thick rope through the D-rings and an intricate pulley system, allowing the ropes to cascade down, the ends pooling on the dark floor. 

Swallowing, Dean suddenly wishes he would have at least put his boxers on. He feels slightly vulnerable. And cold. 

Castiel glances down at Dean with a small, lazy smile, his fingers still threading the ropes. “Hello, Dean.” 

“Heya Cas,” Dean replies. “Can I uh, help with anything?” 

Castiel nods and then tips his head towards the wardrobe, which is now open. “Please gather the black rope from the third drawer.” 

Dean walks over to the wardrobe, bending slightly so he can open the drawer. His eyes wander around the top shelves, which are lined with velvet, various toys indenting the surface, every item in its place, and each place with an item. Dildos, vibrators, flogs, gags. There aren’t a zillion of them, but there’s quite a few variations of each, and Dean swallows thickly as he finally focuses on getting the rope out of the drawer. It’s the same thickness and sturdiness of the rope that Castiel is currently working into the tracks and rings on the ceiling, and Dean puts the coil over his arm as he walks back towards the other man. 

“Uh, got it,” Dean says uselessly. 

Castiel finishes tying off a knot and then steps down from the small stool, folding it up and turning so he can lean it up against the wall. He returns and then holds his hands out towards Dean, who dutifully hands over the rope, just now catching sight of a few of the rings scattered throughout the length. He holds one end and drops the rest of the coil to the floor, stepping into Dean’s space and starting to wrap the rope around his torso. Dean obediently moves his arms slightly out to the side so Castiel has full access, his eyes tracking the two-day stubble growing over tan features.

“Suspension is used for many things,” Castiel starts saying. Dean loves the way Castiel’s deep voice rockets straight to his cock. “Dominance. Punishment. Pleasure. Aesthetic. Today we are going to explore suspension for my favorite result: meditation.” 

Dean nods to show he’s listening, but he’s learned over the past few months to stay quiet when Castiel starts explaining things. Not only because it’s all things Dean has never done before and he’s keen on doing his best to understand; but because it’s hard to do anything but hang on Castiel’s every word. 

“You have given up many vices in the past few months, Dean,” Castiel praises. “I’m very proud of you. Alcohol is a twisted toxin, for both the brain and the body. I am thankful every day to know that you are no longer poisoning yourself.” His fingers skim along Dean’s body as he fastens and loops the ropes, and Dean feels his eyes already starting to flutter in relaxation. “I understand that due to your job, you cannot partake in smoking marijuana with me. This, I am ok with. However, without vices, you are prone to frustration throughout the day, and sometimes by the time you come to me, you are fraught with tension. In the beginning I gave you these,” he pauses in his binding to run his fingers over the ropes on Dean’s wrist, “as a small test. Have these ropes brought you comfort in the past months?”

Dean parts his lips, for a moment unable to find his voice, already feeling lulled. “Yes.” 

Castiel nods, returning to the intricate way he’s laying the ropes over Dean’s torso. He bends gracefully down to his knees so he can start wrapping the ropes around Dean’s thighs, Dean’s feet automatically spreading to give him room. “Giving you that rope was a small sample of what I truly want to try with you: suspension. It is one thing to have the ropes anchored to your body, to feel the tension when _you_ pull on them, to be grounded when _you_ tug on the knots. But to be suspended… to feel the ropes pressing into your most sensitive areas indefinitely, without you having to do it yourself: I am hoping to help you reach a sort of… nirvana.” 

Dean’s throat moving is audible as he glances up towards the tracks, where everything looks sturdy and secure and perfect. “Cas, every time I’m with you, it’s nirvana,” he says quietly. 

Castiel stands and moves behind Dean to gently grab his arms and cross his forearms behind his back, weaving the ropes around them while he drops soft kisses across the expanse of Dean’s shoulders. He stays quiet, now, as he works, and Dean closes his eyes, getting lost in the feeling of Castiel binding him. Castiel leaves him only for a brief moment so he can grab two pillows off of the couch, arranging them on the floor and instructing Dean to lie on his chest. Castiel helps guide him down, and Dean lets out a long exhale when Castiel bends his legs, Dean’s heels pressing against the backs of his thighs as Castiel continues to truss him up. Relaxation is already starting to seep into Dean’s bones, his deep-rooted trust in Castiel carrying him into that sweet, fuzzy state where his anxieties lay to rest. After a few moments Dean feels a pressure from his core; his shoulders, chest, back, hips, and thighs all pull taut, the ropes sinking into his flesh pleasantly. 

“I’m going to lift you now,” Castiel says. “Do not tense. Allow the ropes to carry you.”

Taking a few deep breaths, Dean rests as bonelessly as possible. From somewhere behind him Castiel starts pulling on the complicated pulley system he’s constructed, and the moment Dean is off of the comfort of the soft pillows, he feels like he’s flying. The ride up is smooth, not jerking or tugging him, and he’s barely swaying as he watches the pillows get farther and farther from his eyes. Castiel doesn’t stop hoisting him until he’s a good six feet off the ground, and the sensation of being weightless, of soaring, has Dean closing his eyes and hanging his head softly. His spine lengthens like this, similar to a yoga pose Castiel taught him, and Dean lets out the softest sigh. 

Gentle fingers along his temples alert him to Castiel’s presence, and then there’s soft silk being tied around his head. It lifts his head slightly and he knows Castiel secures the end of the silk to a rope, because his fingers disappear and Dean’s head stays comfortably elevated; a good thing, because he was sure to get a head rush if he kept it relaxed like he had been. His eyes stay closed, suddenly heavy, and he exhales deeply, the pressure of the silk on his forehead relieving. Castiel hasn’t said anything else, and while Dean normally loves the cadence of his voice, like this he’s thankful for the silence. The room is filled with silence - if Castiel is moving, he’s doing so on the tips of his toes. The man doesn’t make a lot of noise when he moves, anyway, always seemingly floating along like he’s never fully grounded in the first place. 

Dean’s unsure as to how long he stays like that. His mind goes blissfully blank; the ropes are pressing in where they are tied, but his whole body feels like it’s being cocooned. There’s not a single inch of skin on his body that doesn’t feel the pressure. He had thought, while Castiel had been working the rope around his body, that he would be sore somewhere, but that isn’t the case at all. He feels so relaxed he might even be asleep. If he’s asleep, he’s not dreaming. Everything is blank space, dark, comforting. 

Infinity passes. Dean can trace the lines of Lupus from tail to neck, can touch the tip of Centaurus’s arrow. He can feel that sensation under his skin, right beneath his shoulder blades, and instead of burning and itchy it’s cool as water. He doesn’t move, but he feels his bones shift, feels his skin slice open with the precision of a scalpel, feels the wings glide out of him like a butterfly from a cocoon. He sighs minutely at the relief. He flies between Hercules and Cassiopeia. 

When he passes Saturn he lands on a ring, weightless on the gaseous loop. Castiel is standing in front of him, brilliant, huge midnight gossamer wings spread and relaxed in invitation. He holds his hand out towards Dean, golden jewelry glittering over his fingers and wrists, gold bands winding up his arms. When Dean reaches out towards him he sees silver on his own body, a mirror of Castiel’s, galaxies swirling in his veins. Instead of inky black tattoos there are supernovas smattered over his skin. Their fingers lace and Castiel brings Dean closer, their wings folding in, feathers brushing and slotting and Dean shivers at the pleasure that comes from their alulae hooking together, settling in his spine. Castiel leans in close to Dean’s ear and whispers in a language long forgotten, Dean’s lashes fluttering at the gravity, of the tenderness of the words. 

“A oiveae…”

Dean’s eyes open, and he’s back in the room, Castiel standing directly in front of him. Dean exhales slowly and Castiel reaches up to cup his face, fingers cradling the back of his neck, thumbs under the hinges of his jaw as cerulean eyes search emerald.

“Dean.”

“A oiveae…” Dean whispers, his voice slightly rough from however long he’s gone without talking.

Castiel’s eyes widen a fraction, before a pleased smile curls on his lips. “My star.” 

Warmth floods through Dean’s body and he closes his eyes, relaxing into Castiel’s touch. 

“Are you ready to come down?” Castiel asks, his voice deep, soft. 

Dean nods. Castiel presses a kiss to his forehead and then leaves Dean’s orbit, very carefully lowering Dean to the pillows on the floor. His fingers are quick and gentle as he pulls on the knots, the rope falling from Dean’s body. He can feel the indentations on his skin, can feel the lingering burn of their presence. A tremble ripples through his body and once he’s fully disentangled from the ropes Castiel’s arms are around him, surprising Dean with his strength he’s lifted into Castiel’s arms.

“You did so good,” Castiel praises. 

Dean closes his eyes, absorbing the praise. There’s a soft fluttering sound and when he opens his eyes again Castiel is lowering him into the bed, back in his home, Dean falling into clouds of silk and cotton. 

\--

When Dean wakes up, he feels mildly disoriented, but incredibly lax. He stretches out all of his limbs, fingers sliding over specific points of his body, feeling the indentations from the rope in his skin. His eyes open and it’s dark in the bedroom, and once again, he’s unsure how much time has passed. His head turns and sees Castiel lying next to him, resting on his side and facing Dean. Shifting a little, Dean reaches out to run his fingers over Castiel’s high cheekbone; Castiel’s eyes open, alert, and Dean realizes he probably hadn’t been asleep at all. His pupils are tiny, swallowed by the night sky, and then Castiel is reaching to bring Dean in for a kiss. It’s slow, unhurried, exploring. Dean hums into it and when Castiel finishes it off with a nip to his lower lip, Dean’s ears tune into the low gravel of the man’s voice.

“Ask, and you shall receive answers.”

Dean’s mind comes to full alertness, even as his body stays suspended in a heavy state of relaxation. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out, trapped behind his teeth. He exhales slowly, arms wrapping around Castiel, bringing him in so their foreheads touch and their noses brush. 

The questions do not come to pass because they are not the right questions, Dean realizes. _What are you_ , _Who am I?_ , and a dozen other questions along the same vein aren’t _right_. Castiel’s hands wander down Dean’s body, his fingers finding the man’s half hard cock, giving it a few lazy pumps while he waits for Dean to figure out just what, exactly, he needs to ask.

Behind closed eyes Dean flies through the cosmos, and every path he takes leads to the same destination: Castiel. This time when his lips part, the right question falls off his tongue. 

“What took you so long?” 

Dean doesn’t understand the question. He doesn’t understand the origin and he has no idea what the right answer is to it, but he knows it’s the correct question to ask. 

“My sweet Kokabiel,” Castiel murmurs. 

Fire ignites in Dean’s veins, his cock swelling to full hardness in the other man’s grip. 

“It was you who took so long.” Castiel starts kissing down Dean’s neck, his thumb swiping over the slit of his cock as he continues, “My wings turned to ash. You could still fly.” 

Dean huffs out a little breath, pleasure swirling through his veins. His hips rock slightly, his hands sliding up to tangle into Castiel’s thick hair. “Why couldn’t I find you?” 

“You didn’t know,” Castiel says, his voice sympathetic. He sucks a bruise into Dean’s collarbone, and from the red and mottled skin Sagittarius erupts into points over his chest. “But I have you now.”

In one fluid motion Castiel rolls Dean onto his back so he can settle between bowed legs, dragging his hands down Dean’s sides as he kisses Sagittarius’s hoof. Dean arches and lets out a soft moan, closing his eyes; he sees Castiel’s wings burning, sees the ash fluttering around him. He sees the embers burrow into Castiel’s skin, inking him from the inside out in random swirls and patterns. The remnants of his wings have permanently become a part of his dimensional body, and when Dean opens his eyes to look at Castiel’s tattoos, it clicks into place. They aren’t random swirls and patterns - they aren’t even tattoos. They are Castiel’s wings, trapped, warded with sigils and dead languages inked alongside them, unable to unfurl unless the symbols are broken. The understanding flashes through Dean’s brain without him fully comprehending it; he reaches up, fingers sliding over Castiel’s chest, fingers following the veins of ink - of _ash_ \- before he speaks softly.

“They burned.”

Castiel hums, licking a wet stripe over Dean’s pec. “You Fell first. It was so beautiful, Dean… So powerful. Inspiring. You loved humanity so much. When I Fell, God had much less mercy.” Castiel shifts, his hands sliding down the length of Dean’s arms. “...Your wings have not incinerated.” His palms slide up from Dean’s wrist, over his biceps and shoulders, before caressing down Dean’s broad chest. Dean arches up into the touch, that familiar sensation burning underneath his shoulder blades. “This is why you have no markings. You are as beautiful as ever.”

Dean huffs out a breath. Castiel’s fingers are still torturing his cock, swiping wetly across the skin, and he arches into it as he listens to Castiel’s words. They taper off though, his explanations, and Castiel instead occupies his mouth by kissing across Capricorn, following the stars dotted along Dean’s pelvis. He mouths at the base of Dean’s cock and then licks his way up the length, suckling at the head and lifting his gaze up towards Dean. Castiel’s eyes are swirling, Vega in the right, Arcturus in the left. It’s almost overwhelming to keep eye contact with him so Dean drops his head back and closes his own eyes, chewing his lower lip as Castiel slicks up his cock with his mouth. 

Still unsure of how much time has passed, feeling like he’s stuck in a vortex where perhaps time doesn’t exist at all, Dean is suddenly aware of Castiel sinking down onto his cock. His eyes open - at least, he thinks they open - and Castiel is riding him slow and dirty, grinding, not bouncing. Dean feels every slide of Castiel’s hot insides, feels every twitch of muscle, every minute clench, and he falls into the angel’s rhythm, his hips starting to push up into Castiel. Castiel’s head falls back and he lets out a low moan, his own hands lifting up to trace along the sigils over his body and suddenly Dean sits up, wrapping his arms tightly around Castiel’s body, his mouth licking hot and wet over the symbols. 

Castiel’s wings are burned, but they are trapped, not destroyed. Something cool-hot gathers in Dean’s palm and when he presses his hand against Castiel’s chest, white light flows from his fingertips, wispy, airy, viscous as it seeps into Castiel’s skin. For a moment, everything goes still - their bodies, their breaths, time itself - and then the white light explodes in Castiel’s chest, the blue-eyed angel letting a hoarse, anguished cry rip from his throat as his body seizes and burns from the inside out. The light is blinding and Dean holds him through it, absorbs the flames into himself, and when the sigils burn away so do Castiel’s inky black tattoos, his wings ripping from his flesh wetly and violently. The length of his wingspan fills the room, three sets of two; the bones are singed, some feathers charred and frayed and some even falling gracefully to the floor as they shake themselves out. Castiel collapses against Dean, their bodies still joined, his breathing harsh and uneven as a few low whines pass his lips.

“Cassiel…” Dean breathes out. He lets Castiel rest against him as he moves his hands to the other’s back, fingers sliding along the bones sprouting from his shoulder blades, that white light softer, sweeter, the scent of ozone and fresh rain filling the air around them as he slides his hands up the length of the bone slightly. The white light travels through Castiel’s wings, touching each joint, each feather, healing and gentle. Grace. This is his Grace. 

He watches the feathers of Castiel’s beautiful, glorious wings fill out and fluff up. He watches as their dullness recedes, replaced with midnight gossamer, wings reflecting blues, indigos, greens. He wills his Grace to fill each feather individually and Castiel shudders over him, starting to rock on his cock once more, cold-hot pulsing through both of their bodies. Once Castiel’s wings are healed two sets of them retreat into the ethereal plane, leaving Castiel with his primary wings spread and shivering. Castiel’s fingers tangle in Dean’s hair and he trembles violently; Dean redirects his Grace, allowing it to spread through Castiel from head to toe and Castiel cums so suddenly and violently, hot ropes splurt up to Dean’s chin. 

Dean continues to fuck him, and Castiel moves against him, insatiable, his cock still hard. Dean continues to spread his Grace between them, the euphoria filling him from the inside out, cold-hot and encompassing. Castiel’s eyes are lidded and dark and Dean beckons him into a kiss, their tongues sliding across one another messily, spit dribbling from the corners of their mouths. Castiel’s hands slide over Dean’s back, across his shoulder blades, drawing his wings out. Castiel has orgasmed once but he’s chasing another, Dean can tell, his Grace trying to draw out as much pleasure as possible. The tattoos are gone from Castiel’s skin but they’ve been replaced by watercolor constellations and nebulae. 

Dean’s wings cocoon them. The motion causes Castiel’s wings to fold in slightly and Dean’s Grace spreads through both of their wings at the same time their feathers slot and Castiel is crying out again, his second orgasm painting over Dean’s star-freckled skin. Dean glances down to see space and time itself shifting and unfolding under his flesh, and then glances up to see the night sky reflected in the underside of his wings.

He is the Prince of the Stars.

He is the universe, and the universe is him. 

Castiel grips his hair tightly and forces eye contact. “ _Dean_.”

Dean erupts in orgasm, the force and sensation of it rocketing through his entire body. He spills inside Castiel so hard he feels it seeping out of his tight rim and dripping down along the length of his cock, sticky and sweet. Their wings blink into nonexistence, leaving stardust to fall in their absence, and Dean falls back against the bed, breathless and mindblown, sleep taking him under immediately. 

\--

When he opens his eyes again, he’s alone in the bed, and daylight is streaming through the small gap in the blackout curtains. His head feels fuzzy and his body feels like it ran a marathon. Sitting up, he notes that Castiel isn’t in bed with him, so he lazily starts to push the covers off of himself. 

A flash of color catches his eye. 

Many colors. 

A galaxy of them, spreading down his arms to his wrists. Panic flits through him at the appearance of the tattoos, and then he’s jumping out of bed to go to the full-length mirror Castiel has hanging on the wall next to his closet. Dean’s mouth falls open, trepidation filling his core as he takes in his appearance.

An exact mirror of the inky black tattoos on Castiel’s body are reflected on Dean’s skin, but filled with a soft wash of color, and so barely defined it looks like the ink itself is underneath Dean’s skin and peeking through the thinnest layer of flesh. There are bright spots, so light they almost glow, and Dean recognizes a few of their shapes as being constellations. Fully naked, he’s able to see that the watercolor covers almost every inch of his body. He turns around and looks at his back, his gut dropping to the floor as he sees soft white wings tattooed down the length of his spine, the primary feathers ghosting along his tailbone. 

There are no sigils or symbols woven between the galaxies and stars.

Dean feels panic clawing at his throat. “Cas!” 

It takes Castiel a moment to enter the bedroom, and when he does he’s holding a cup of coffee. Dean turns to face him, gesturing towards his body, and Castiel blinks in mild surprise, gaze roaming the other man from head to toe.

“Oh, my.” 

Anger flashes through Dean’s veins. “ _’Oh my’_? Cas, what the _hell_ is happening?”

Castiel lets out a soft sigh, before he turns around. “Come with me and have a cup of coffee. I would like you to sit down while I… explain things.”

Dean grabs a fresh pair of underwear out of the dresser and pulls them on, refusing to look at himself in the mirror again as he follows Castiel out into the kitchen. He pulls out a chair and sits down in it, folding his arms tightly across his chest, eyes focusing on Castiel because if he looks anywhere else, he’ll see the flashes of color, the stars, _the truth_. Castiel busies himself with pouring Dean a steaming mug of coffee before he sits down at the table, gently sliding the mug over towards the fuming man. Castiel is beautiful as ever, wearing a black silk robe, the chest of it parted almost seductively, exposing the black tattoos covering his tanned skin.

“Do you remember last night?” Castiel asks.

“The ropes?” Dean replies gruffly.

Castiel tilts his head, eyes regarding Dean calmly. “After that.” 

Dean rattles his brain around to try and remember what happened. He remembers falling asleep in subspace, so comforted and protected and cocooned by Castiel, and then he remembers… 

He remembers flying to Saturn. He remembers his wings. He remembers that cold-hot feeling of his Grace flowing from his body and into Castiel’s. 

Cassiel’s. 

Dean’s mouth goes dry. “That was real?” 

Castiel stays quiet and calm, his arms folded on the table as he leans slightly over it, his eyes tracking over Dean’s features. “Yes.”

“All of it?” Dean croaks. Falling. Humanity. Hurtling through the infinite vastness of space because he Fell for Humanity but he _yearned_ for Cassiel. 

“Yes,” Castiel says, his voice still soft and even. “It was all real… long ago.” 

Dean puts his elbows on the table and pushes his forehead into his hands, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths. “You’re telling me I’m some… some kind of… angel reincarnate? Kakabel?”

“Kokabiel,” Castiel corrects gently. “And… to a degree, you are a reincarnate. As am I.” 

“This is,” Dean sits back in his chair, hands flopping to the table. Cassiopeia is on the back of his left hand in muted blues and purples. “This shit ain’t real, Cas. Angels- angels _don’t exist_ , man. None of that- none of that biblical crap-” 

“Dean.” Castiel’s voice is suddenly sharp. “I understand that you need to work through what is happening, but I would appreciate it if you would not blaspheme.” 

“Has-” Dean licks his lips, looking up at Castiel. “What about your story, huh? You bein’ raised by bigots and your tattoos bein’ how you rebelled against them? Was that all a lie?”

“No,” Castiel says evenly. “I have never lied to you, Dean. This is a vessel,” he says, gesturing to himself. “These tattoos are exactly as they were, and came to be exactly as told.”

“But the sigils…” Dean’s eyes drop to the tattoos peeking from Castiel’s robe. “Isn’t- all those tattoos, they’re… they’re your wings.” He says, putting bits and pieces together.

“They are seals,” Castiel agrees. “I did not understand much when I first started getting them. I was having dreams that showed me visions…” he trails off a little, glancing down at his tattooed fingers, and then glances up to meet Dean’s gaze again. “Much like you started having, Dean.”

Dean exhales shortly, tipping his head back to look up at the ceiling. Of course, over the past few months he’d known something had been… strange, to say the least. Something about Castiel - the way he presents himself, moves himself. The way he inserts himself directly into Dean’s psyche. When they make love it’s unlike anything Dean has ever experienced, and there have been many times when Dean had thought himself drugged, what with the visions and - what he thought were - hallucinations plaguing his mind. Could it really all be a past life? Is Castiel really an angel?

Is _Dean_ really an angel?

He drops his head to stare at his coffee. Castiel is crazy. That’s gotta be it. He smokes too much pot, the pot is probably laced, and when he smokes it Dean probably gets secondhand high, which causes him to have all of these wacky thoughts and dreams. That’s gotta be it. There’s no way that any of this is real.

His gaze slides to his hands, then trails up his arms, where the watercolor tattoos are as real as anything he’s ever seen.

Standing up, Dean shakes his head, anxiety flaring within him. “I- I gotta go. I can’t… this is a lot, Cas.” 

He hates the hurt look that passes over Castiel’s face. They’ve been together, in bliss, for over three months and so much _good_ has happened as a result. Dean doesn’t really believe in faith, or religion, or anything like that - but he truly believes that Castiel has absolved him, blessed him, _changed_ him. 

He hates that Castiel nods slowly, lowering his gaze towards Dean’s untouched coffee, his voice the barest of whispers as he replies, “I understand.” 

When Dean leaves ten minutes later, fully dressed and carrying his duffel bag with items that he normally keeps at Castiel’s place, he feels a deep ache in his bones. 

The rope around his wrist burns.

**Author's Note:**

> i have taken liberties with both cassiel and kokabiel's lore.  
> THIS IS NOT ABANDONED. THIS MUSE IS VERY FINICKY. I refuse to force something out and fuck everything up so please grant me some patience.  
> Thank you. ♡


End file.
